Dont let it slip Sherlock
by Slendahmon
Summary: Sherlock fanfiction (johnlock) but in this story all the characters are agents working under the CIA. They still have the same personalities but this contains more action than the original TV show does.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: What is this, an insane asylum?**

John slipped his card in the woman's coat pocket, she glanced up warily at John.

"If you ever need _anything, _you can just call me." John smiled at the young woman and she smiled back, though she didn't look as though she meant it. John beamed slightly and watched her pick up her dress by its sides and shuffle away. John looked around, hands in his pockets, awaiting what he should do next.

"It would help if you weren't handing your number to potential victims during field work." Sherlock's voice boomed through the earpiece John had fixed as deep in as was possible. John reached up to adjust it, hoping to lower the volume.

"It would also help if you weren't always such a _moron, _don't touch the ear piece or it'll be a dead give away. Now turn around and smile." John did as he was told and found himself grinning to an older man with slight wrinkles near his eyes.

"You don't always have to be such a dick you know." John mumbled as discreetly as he could.

"There are so many other words for that and you chose dick? Besides, I think it would be in your best interest to know that the number you slipped into that woman's pocket is now stuck to an ice within the ice box." Sherlock added smugly. John inwardly groaned, he had really like that girl. Then again, he would like any girl after all he had been through. In fact, he was certain he would like anyone who could talk and smile and breathe. But still, his preferences were tall, darker hair, slender bone structure and mysterious to some extent. He had always been drawn in some way to women like that.

"Well my cover is a young bachelor so really I was only protecting and making my character more believable." John crossed his arms, but Sherlock could not see him, nor him Sherlock, so the act of annoyance was to no avail.

"John, I found the suspect." John snapped into attention. He peered around the ballroom. "By the brown table, he's got a red tie and a black suit on.

"Lestrade, do you have eyes on him?" John began circling the crowd, attempting to get closer.

"Yes, I have all the cameras under my control and suspect A is in my vision."

"But have you hacked into the cameras?" Sherlock inquired, John could almost hear him, _really _hear him, as though Sherlock were right beside John.

"No but-"

"Again it seems I am the only one doing the work." Sherlock stood beside John now, his familiar scent snaking it's way into John's system.

"Shut up." Lestrade replied, rather with annoyance than anger. It seemed Lestrade had used all the anger he could at Sherlock and now there was none left. Sherlock tightened his tie and began walking forward.

"Hey," John grabbed onto Sherlock's thin arm and pulled him back. "What's you're plan Agent Holmes?" John mocked his professional name. Sherlock pulled away.

"I was going to be a man investing in-" Sherlock began, though his voice was suddenly much more stern, a sure sign Sherlock was soon to pout.

"No, I think we let Irene handle this." John attempted to say her name as though it meant nothing, but he knew his pitch changed as her name came along. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, of course Sherlock would notice, if Sherlock didn't notice, no one could. But it seemed Sherlock was not narrowing his eyes at John, no he was narrowing his eyes _behind _John.

"Well, at least she's on time." John muttered as he turned around. Irene sauntered into the large ballroom, the violins began to play a faster beat and around her, people stared enviously and some stared, awe-struck. As though Irene was their goddess. But she had a reputation she could never outlive, and many people here had heard of her. Some threw her looks of disgust. Irene had not done well on her disguise. She wore a long backless red dress that had not a wrinkle or a stain anywhere. The dress was so tight, one would think it would tear as soon as she moved, but she continued on, walking towards the dance floor. Irene stood hesitantly before three or four men rushed over to give their hands. Irene took that of the first man who came her way. The tall blonde seemed stoked happy and he held onto Irene as though she might break, on trembling hand on her hip, one holding her other hand. Together they danced for 2 perhaps even 3 songs. It wasn't long before most people had moved out of the way for them. As subtly as she could manage, Irene danced till she was as close to the suspect as possible.

"She doesn't have to touch him _that _much." John grumbled, more so to himself than anyone else.

"Jealous." Sherlock noted. John bit his lip and did what he could to ignore Sherlock. On the dance floor, Irene and the blonde were coming to a slow halt.

"He's noticed her, in about 20 seconds he's going to go up there, see how he's handling his glass? He's agitated. Clearly he's had a few drinks before this. His body guards seem tense, more tense than they should. I would say he's had a bad history of alcohol, something happened, he did something when he was drunk. His upper lip is scared, it's a thin line but its paleness indicates it is deep, I would say a fist fight perhaps, but the scar resembles that of a glass shard. He has no wife, only suitors but he has 2 young girls. No animals, in fact he hates animals."

John watched as suspect A stood up and walked towards Irene. The blonde pulled away, almost out of fear, however Irene stood her ground. She smiled dauntingly.

"My fair lady, may I have this dance?" He bent over and held out his hand.

"Back injury, he's leaning towards the left, leg injury as well. His right hand normally carries a walking stick but he deemed it inappropriate and suspicious if he carried one." Sherlock continued.

"What color?" John asked, not expecting an answer.

"Blue."

"Silvia, would be the name." Irene replied, slipping her hand inside of his. "You may have this dance." He stood up, twisting slightly to the left. Then he regained his stance and, in a less gentle way than the tall blonde, grabbed onto Irene's waist.

They danced for a while, and John watched as his hand stroked her bare back.

"You are beautiful." He whispered into her ear, his accents thick in his voice. Sherlock smiled and John frowned.

"Shit load of good that lines going to get him. Trust me I've tried." Lestrade's voice came out from the other end of the earpiece.

"Don't, Lestrade, John's taking this slightly personally." Sherlock warned as he watched John from his peripheral vision.

"Well I do try." Irene replied simply, smiling devilishly at him. He gripped her dress tighter.

"She's pushing it." Sherlock muttered and John held his breathe. Irene hadn't been in the field in 2 months after suffering 3 bullet wounds, 2 to the chest, one to the back. Today was her test. She had always been a brilliant agent but fatal accidents tended to leave scars, in more ways that physicall.

"And to whom do I owe the pleasure of this dance?" Irene twirled, her dress tangling within itself.

"David." Suspect A replied as he pulled her in, his mouth slightly grazing her ear. Irene pulled away and continued dancing.

"Such a bitter sweet name." Irene's face was inches away from his. "Would you like to take this elsewhere?" Irene puckered her lips slightly and leaned inwards.

"It's too soon, the placement on his hands makes it clear he's not attracted to her as much as she thinks. His eyes have not flickered to her chest, though she is flaunting her breasts infront of him."

"Yes well neither did yours when she walked in naked." John replied icily, in truth he was simply worried. Irene could not mess this up, her career depended on it.

John and Sherlock grew silent as David stood up taller, so his head was looming above Irene's. Then he reached forward and pushed her hair behind her ear.

"Yes, maybe we-" Then they could hear no more.

"Shit he's taken out the ear piece, he knows." John begun to panic. Irene stood, still trying to maintain her image, though it had been broken. With his hand on her back, David led Irene towards the elevators situated in the lobby.

"I'll go in the elevator with them, you take the stairs." Sherlock didn't wait for a surprise before slipping into the crowd. John turned abruptly, not allowing himself to think and hurried to the servant's quarter where a long set of stairs sat. John pushed the door in and stood, the dark empty stairs echoing his footsteps. John tapped the ear piece, willing for it to work.

"Sherlock?" He whispered. "Sherlock are you in?"

"63rd floor, what a coincidence I'm there as well." Sherlock entered the elevator almost the minute it began to close, no one inside could push him out in time. The elevator began moving and Sherlock held his hands behind his back, attempting nonchalance.

"Quite the party wouldn't you say?" Sherlock didn't turn back but he could _feel_ Irene's fear. They had put her in too early and in something too dangerous.

"Yes, it is." David replied, Sherlock noted from the tiny reflective surfaces in the buttons that David held a hand behind Irene's back, but it was not touching her. Sherlock easily identified as the object he was holding to be a gun.

John looked up at the never ending stairs. Floor 1 to floor 63? John could never do that, he had less than 60 seconds to formulate a plan, he would have to be a Dalek to get up there fast enough. John glanced around him until his eyes fell upon the window. He shrugged. Easy enough.

"Well, this is me.." Sherlock exited the elevator and walked on forward as though they were not behind him. He turned a corner and then stopped, he stood still for a few seconds until he heard voices, they were growing closer and closer. Sherlock turned and grabbed onto the handle that had been digging into his back. He opened the door quickly and slipped silently into the supply room. He heard voices being carried past the door till he could no long hear them.

"John, where are you? Don't say you took the stairs." Sherlock spoke as loudly as he dared.

"No, turn around."

Sherlock turned, as was instructed and John Watson hung just outside the window. Sherlock hurried towards it and opened it up for him. John slipped inside and Sherlock helped unbuckle the belt. It was on tightly, pulling his pants down and zipper. Sherlock's hands fumbled with the buckle, it was odd, being to close to John in such a private place. John sighed and pushed Sherlock away.

"Where are they?" John asked as he undid himself.

"Outside." Sherlock turned and pressed his ear against the door. "Gone." He listened a bit more till he was certain. "How did you know this was the 63rd floor?" Sherlock asked.

John stalked towards the door and gently pushed Sherlock aside, he slipped the door open, poked his head out and turned around. "Lucky guess." He replied before slithering out. Sherlock followed his lead.

John stood in the hallway, unsure of where to go.

"Which way?" He turned to Sherlock. Sherlock pointed towards the left.

"Lestrade, can you see us?" John asked.

"Yup, I lost connection a few minutes ago when you were in that cupboard but I have you again. They went into room-"

"203." Sherlock finished for him.

"Dammit Sherlock, every time?"

"What's the plan?" John asked. Sherlock slipped his head around the corner and glanced at room 203. Outside stood the bodyguards, armed with guns.

"Hold my hand." Sherlock stuck out his hand. John hesitated, watching it as though Sherlock's hand might explode.

"Why?" John asked tentavly.

"Because for the next 2 minutes were are in a relationship." Sherlock replied simply, as though it were fact.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2- where can I get some water please?

"Sherlock, I do hope you have a plan," Agent John Watson tugged at the ropes that bound his wrists. "Irene, are you okay?"

Irene glanced up, as though she had only just realized they were there. "Yes. I was expecting you to be getting me _out _of the cuffs not seeing you in them next to me." Irene sighed and let her head hang forward, as though she were dead. It made John's heart speed up slightly, his mind playing tricks on his emotions. Imagining Irene dead scared him. Their love had broken his heart; it would kill him if it stopped hers. He watched her closely until he finally paid attention to what she was doing.

"Are you coming loose?" John leaned back and glanced at her working hands. She picked up her head and grinned at him slightly, as she had done so hundreds of times before. John warmed immediately, almost as though it were instinct.

"Yes, just give me a few more minutes." Irene's hands ran in circles as she picked on the roughly done knots, no doubt they were tight on John and Sherlock, but the bodyguards had not tied it tightly enough on Irene, her slender wrists and hands were able to stretch and bend loosely enough.

"Well, I suggest you change that into seconds." Sherlock mused from beside John. Sherlock had his legs crossed before him and was examining the room.

"At least she's trying to do _something _to get us out of here." John turned his head sideways, glancing at Sherlock.

With a silent squeak the door opened, one shoe stepped out carefully and quietly then David entered. He smiled as he walked up to them, clearly enjoying their current state.

"Agent Watson, Agent Adler and the one and only Agent Holmes." David strolled casually towards the coffee table where David had kept a set of needles and knives sprawled out on a dirty napkin. John was the only one watching David as his fingers delicately traced the sharp edges of one of the knives.

"See how he said my name?" Sherlock leaned in towards John and smiled smugly. John turned and found Sherlock inches from his face.

"I did see how he said your name and it probably has something to do with Mycroft," John quickly turned away and looked at Irene. She had almost completely undone her knots.

"If you know who we are working for and where we work, why not kill us now?" John stalled for time; he had only just realized that if David stepped forward even once he would notice Irene's progress.

"Mycroft Holmes," David glanced up at the calm Sherlock and raised his thick eyebrows. "So many secrets that man has." David picked up the knife and carefully walked over to Sherlock. John swallowed tightly and glanced at Irene. Just about a minute left.

"So you want information on Mycroft?" John jumped in, David and his gleaming knife stood before Sherlock.

"Oh, do I?" David pulled a chair and sat it in front of Sherlock. "More than you could imagine," David looked up at Sherlock. "What I want to know is, where is Mycroft Holmes' office?" David put the knife gently to Sherlock's cheek and pressed it lightly. John's mouth had gone dry. He looked back at Irene, she had gotten a finger stuck in the rope.

"I know he was resituated and I know for a fact you, Sherlock Holmes had a lot to do with it." David pressed harder and John could see Sherlock whimper slightly.

"For _gods _sake would you leave him alone? He doesn't know anything anyways, he never went there, it was me who was." David glanced up at John as though he had only just noticed him.

"So he protects you?" David looked back at Sherlock and then laughed. "Are you a child? Look at you trembling," David placed a hand on Sherlock's knee. "Well, if he stands up for you, would you stand up for him?" David stood up and moved the chair in front of John. Panic engulfed Sherlock.

"So, Agent Holmes, any information?" David put the slightly blood stained knife on John's neck. "You know, the vitalities of life are right here in the neck, I wouldn't want to kill you so fast when I can have so much fun," He moved the knife to John's cheek, as he had done with Sherlock.

"Care to talk, Holmes?" David pressed the tip of the knife into John's skin and John flinched as subtly as he could.

"Stop." Sherlock whimpered in a barely audible voice. In the momentary lapse of silence that followed John had completely forgotten about Irene, he was focusing on Sherlock, locking eyes with him in a weak attempt to tell him he needs to _shut up_. Which would explain John's surprise when in a sudden un-follow-able movement Irene sprung from her seat and leaped at David.

"Hurry, he'll be out for only a moment." Irene rushed to John's aid and cut the rope tying his hands. Though this was not the time John could not help but notice Irene's soft skin holding down one of his coarse hands. When Irene had freed John she rushed to Sherlock. John retrieved his pistol, which David's bodyguards had stripped him of, from the table behind them. Sherlock stood and stumbled slightly as he walked forward. John grasped his elbow tightly and helped him stand straight.

"Now is _defiantly _not the time for panic," John let go of Sherlock and hurried forward. "Sherlock look for the papers, we'll deal with the bodyguards." John took the knife from the coffee table and so did Irene. They crept forward and stood beside the door.

"It's in here." Sherlock said surely as he pressed a hand against the table. Sherlock's hand slipped underneath the table and searched the surface for a keypad or lock. He found the key pad on the far right corner. Sherlock thought for a moment before entering the code.

Irene and John waited patiently as Sherlock put his hand inside the hole that had formed on the table and pull out the paper.

"No time to look it over," John said swiftly, then, in a sudden movement John pulled open the door and brought the butt of the knife heavily down on the body guard that stood in the door way. He jumped out and the second bodyguard pulled out a gun in preparation. He aimed and then Irene's hands wrapped around his eyes and he stumbled back wards. Irene put the knife to his throat and slit it open easily. John watched in horror as the man fell down, clutching his bleeding throat in pain. Irene dragged both the bodies into the room and Sherlock jumped over them.

"You didn't have to kill him," John reached forward and pressed the button on the elevator carefully. It opened almost instantly, and Sherlock entered first, cautiously silent.

Irene did not respond to John but it didn't matter, John knew the reason why she had killed. The reason had always been the same. As the elevator rode a jazzy song played on the speakers, Irene's fingertips were stained with blood and John removed his glove.

"Put this on." He handed it to her and she slipped it on. The glove was big on her but it did not matter. Before the elevator doors opened into the grand foyer of the hotel John reached up and wiped the blood on Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock had long since stopped trembling, but the memory was fresh in John's mind.

The calming chatter of the foyer greeted the three of them and they stepped out casually, John began talking to Sherlock about his so called "business" while Irene split from them. Together, however, they made their way to the exit.

When John stepped into the silent air outside he found the white van just before them, waiting for them to enter. John opened the door and they hurried in.

"Well, that went fantastic." Lestrade grinned. "Sherlock you did so well." Though John had nothing to do with the jokes Lestrade and Sherlock liked to play on each other, John knew when Sherlock was not to be meddled with. He silently met Lestrade's eyes and the word _hungraine _passed between them. Lestrade nodded and put his feet down. He kept silent for the rest of the ride and John sat opposite Irene. When he knew Irene was not looking he snuck glances at her.

"What have you brought back?" Mycroft's voice boomed through the speakers on the wall. Sherlock held up the paper. "Is it the list?"

"Yes it is." Sherlock placed it on the table.

"Good, you've done well, now Sherlock and Irene, please leave the room," Mycroft sat in an office, the large screen displaying his full face but only a section of his body. "I wanted to ask," Mycroft put his hands together and looked up. "How was Irene?"

John glanced at Lestrade and when Lestrade remained silent John cleared his throat.

"She did as well as she could have, considering the circumstances."

Mycroft was silent for a while before he spoke again. "I will want a full report on the mission, Lestrade."

"Of course Mycroft." Lestrade responded casually, then he glanced sheepishly at John and quickly corrected himself. "Captain."

"Where is Moriarty?" Mycroft picked up his can and turned it over in his hands.

"In the store." John replied. Mycroft nodded.

"Alright, I want the paper faxed to me instantly then filed away carefully with the rest of the sheets. For now, you are dismissed." The screen went blank and John turned to Lestrade.

"I'll fax it over to him." Lestrade picked up the paper and began reading it. Silently, John left the room and pressed his palm against the small screen in front of the doors. Last month they had upgraded the security system, there was no longer a code, only thumbprints and eye prints. John pushed his eye into the hole and a bright red light blinded him momentarily before it was gone.

The doors opened and John pulled back.

"I've hailed our cab," Sherlock stood before the black taxi and opened the door for John. "What took you so long?"

John climbed in and Sherlock followed.

"Just protocol." John looked out the window as he spoke.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock said to the cab driver and the cab began to move. John did not notice, he was lost in thought. Sherlock watched John's serine face as the lights of London shone brilliantly on his wrinkles. Sherlock wondered why he had gone so limp when the knife had been raised to John's throat. He would not have uttered a word, Sherlock knew, if the man had slit his own face open, but John…well, John was another story. Sherlock remembered with an aching vividness the knife against John's throat, the gun against John's head, the noose around John's neck. So many times John had nearly died, so many times Sherlock had seen him come within an inch of his life and with every night Sherlock went to sleep he wondered if John would be alive, would be breathing, sleeping with restlessness, with his terrible dreams the next night. Sherlock turned away from John's illuminated face and immediately the anger hit him, hit him so hard he struggled to breath.

Suddenly Sherlock was taken away with the anger, his anger at himself, how could he let someone like John get in the way of his work? Sherlock had locked himself up for years, his agent life consuming him. Not one weakness, never one weakness, Mycroft had said, with such certainty Sherlock suffered jealousy unlike he had ever seen. Years Sherlock had perfected his circle, the dark lines he had drawn around himself. Sherlock clenched his fists and then John's eyes stared into his, such accusing eyes, Sherlock could not rid himself of them.

Sherlock pressed a hand to his head and furrowed his eyebrows, John noticed almost immediately, it was Sherlock's distress symptoms, when Sherlock was in terrible mental pain John had come to sense the symptoms, he didn't have to look at Sherlock to know how he felt. John watched people go by, hundreds of them stepping in the puddles of cold water, ducking beneath umbrellas and coats to avoid the slight drizzle. John looked at Sherlock and wanted to help him in some way but John could not, simply because it was Sherlock and Sherlock was untouchable.

The cab pulled to a halt and Sherlock stepped out before the tires had stopped moving. Sherlock stalked, head down, into the apartment, the door left unlocked. John paid the driver and with a painful sigh, he glanced around him before entering the apartment himself. It was warmer than he had thought it would be, but he had never underestimated Ms. Hudson when it came to hospitality. John pounded up the stairs and pushed open the slightly ajar door. Sherlock paced the messy living room with a startling speed. John shrugged off his jacket and hung it up.

"Want to talk about it?" John sat on the sofa, his black suit tugging itself up, the measurements had been done terribly. Sherlock stopped pacing and stroked his chin lightly.

"The writing was a woman's writing," Sherlock turned and put his hands in his pockets. "It was a cursive, ball point pen writing. The pen was bought in a 7/11 store. The suitcase by the cupboard was light pink, the lock broken, the bed was broken and all over the floor blonde hair. Blonde, John, blonde. Do you want to know why?"

John sighed. "Not right now, but go on."

"Because David was not the art thief, and neither was the blonde, it was all a trap. The whole thing was a set up; the art thief being at that hotel was not real. Initially it was set up for us, but word got around, suddenly you have agents from NSA, from CIA, from all types of spy agencies heading towards this hotel, but then you have the thieves looking to steal from another thief. David found the blonde snooping in the room, killed her and pushed her body under the bed. David looked around and couldn't find the paper, we came along, he found us and decided to make the most of what he could. We ran and took the paper with us but the paper is a scam. It's scam with a message for me." Sherlock turned enthusiastically and jumped over the coffee table to stand in front of John.

"Wow, well, any idea who it might be?" John sat back, with Sherlock so close he wasn't sure quite how to look at him.

"No, no idea." Sherlock paced in small circles in front of John. John could tell it was deteriorating Sherlock's mind and John could almost hear his head steaming. John stood up and held Sherlock's shoulders.

"Sherlock," John waited patiently for Sherlock to come back to reality and realize that John was trying to get his attention. "Sherlock, that's a problem for tomorrow," For a second they were silent, Sherlock's breathing so calming, so synchronized with John's. John dropped his hands, but their eyes still held. John put a hand to the cut on his cheek.

"You didn't get it bandaged?" John pushed it lightly and Sherlock had no reaction, he watched, as though in a daze. John turned and reached into the desk's first drawer. He pulled out a small bandage and a cotton soaked in a few drops of Dettol, he sat Sherlock down and wiped the dirt and blood away. John had not realized that the cut was deeper than it had looked. John carefully and gently pushed the bandage on Sherlock's cheek. He pressed it down till he had to pull his hand back. As John worked, Sherlock watched him, captivated.

"Thank you." Sherlock muttered. Then he stood and walked off into another room. John's hands dropped into his lap, still holding the dirty cotton. He looked down at it and rotated it in his fingers. Oh, the things Sherlock did to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3- Anyone know any good café's?**

Agent Holmes slipped into his well-fitted pair of black trousers. He took a certain amount of care to the way he dressed, always found it was priority. Sherlock Holmes pulled over his head a button down shirt that attempted causality. There was dreadfulness that sprouted and bred within Sherlock's being, as always happened when London was littered with polluted downpour. Sherlock stalked into the living room and picked up the violin. Agent John Watson was asleep and most likely in a terrible mood; Sherlock had always known John's nerves calmed in the slightest when he played the violin to wake John up.

_Dream of nightmares._

He had named the song he begun to play, it was the song he begun each day with, in ode to John, his roommate and coworker. Though Sherlock knew the relationship was slightly more extensive than meets the eye. Sherlock played with perfection for several minutes before he heard the familiar soft thudding of John's bare feet on the wooden ancient floor.

"Sherlock," John said warmly, with a slight tinge of affection. John seated himself on the kitchen table, glanced upward and delivered a nod of approval in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock fought back a scowl though it was evident not only in the way Sherlock put his violin down but in the single few seconds where he could not mask his emotions. John immediately righted his mistake.

"You played wonderfully well today," John stood and opened the cupboard above his head. "A little earlier than usual, isn't it?" John reached up to grab hold of the cereal perched on the top shelf. John had always known Sherlock had kept it a little higher than John's reach on purpose. When John turned slightly he caught Sherlock's subtle stare on John's torso. A thick line of skin exposed the beginnings of John's well-built chest. John gave it a last push of effort and pulled down the cereal. He groaned slightly as a few grains fell down.

"Can you not place the cereal where I can _actually _reach it?" John grumbled as he did every morning while he poured himself a small portion of the cereal. John usually found it difficult to stomach food after his nightmares.

"Sorry, force of habit," Sherlock grinned as he walked towards John. "What are we doing today?" Sherlock sat across John, their knees barely brushing each others.

"Working as detectives, which is our cover, incase you forgot." John bent his head down but looked up with his eyes, Sherlock's annoyed face stared back down at him.

"I wish we had decided on something les…._demanding_." Sherlock glanced at the clock behind John.

"Sherlock, you do know that we mostly just spend time in the apartment as we await so called "crimes" to solve, right?" John pushed the cereal in his bowl around slightly.

"Don't ask me if I _know _that, of course I know that," Sherlock stood. "The demanding part of the job is having nothing to do."

"So you would rather work than stay home with me?" John questioned, his head resting on the bend of his wrist with his hand facing downward. Sherlock snapped his head towards John.

"You know that's not it John," Sherlock sighed. "I need things to do, things to think about." Sherlock turned away from John.

"I suppose you could think about the letter delivered in code to you yesterday, just an idea." John chewed on his hard cereal.

"Yes, I've already figured that out, not much to know, really. Just another location which I suppose I would have to run by Mycroft before visiting." Sherlock leaned against the fireplace and stared at nothing in particular.

"Or we could go on our own." John stood, having not eaten most of his cereal John was done staring at it with a hateful glare. Sherlock looked from the food to him, he seemed to understand that John suffered from PTSD though John had never mentioned the nightmares. Sherlock stepped towards John and stood before him.

"Any more dreams?" Sherlock squarely looked into his eyes, though Sherlock was not one for physical contact or social engagement he had never been shy in the slightest around John.

"Nightmares, you mean." John commented, his voice low and his eyes lower. Sherlock reached out but seemed to change his mind halfway, he stood, frozen with one hand almost reaching out to John, then he turned away.

"Yes, you should take medication for those." Sherlock placed both hands on his hips and though his actions were to no avail, avoided John by pretending he was thinking about something. Which was not entirely untrue, he was thinking about something, it just so happened he was thinking about John.

John sighed and with his slightly itchy sweater clinging to his arms, reached forward to Sherlock. He turned Sherlock and leaned forward, planting a firm kiss on Sherlock's cheek, his lips making contact with the edge of Sherlock's. Sherlock stood, stunned, with no reaction for a moment, then he wrapped two hands with the most collectedness he could summon and clung to John. John leaned back slightly and Sherlock's eyes met his, then, as they had done so the morning before, John's lips pressed warmly onto Sherlock's. A smooth, tranquil kiss sped through John's systems and seemed to warm them up with an unnatural heating. John clutched Sherlock's cheeks with his hands and pressed them with an affectionate pressure. Sherlock pulled John closer to him. Their lips never breaking contact, Sherlock stepped back and he stood against the wall behind him. John deepened the kiss and entered his tongue into Sherlock's slippery mouth. John's closed eyes imagined Sherlock's face, his eyes, he pictured his every feature. John loved them each to death, though he feared Sherlock did not feel the same. John pulled back then, before the simple kiss got out of hand. Sherlock, breathless, simply stared at John. John had always been the one to take the initiative in physical and emotional contact. Sherlock accepting and reacting to it. Sherlock had no real understanding of what to do or what to say, but John understood that and helped Sherlock through it all.

"It's wrong," Sherlock whispered in an inaudible voice. "We're agents, we aren't supposed to feel things, tomorrow, they could be plunging a knife into your stomach to get me to talk," Sherlock reached forward and stroked John's stubble. "That would make me talk, that would make me do anything. When you start to mean more than my career is when this gets out of hand."

John pulled away from Sherlock's hand.

"You know I would never let you get into harms way."

"Yes, but I think that it is inevitable. One way or another you will be my weakness and they will find out, then they will use you against me." Sherlock stood straighter.

"No one has to know then." John nearly pleaded. Sherlock smiled a small smile.

"We can try, but I don't think that will work too well. I feel to strongly for you."

John did not want to take advantage of the situation nor did he want to let it go, it was not often that Sherlock was so open and so affectionate. John opened his mouth but promptly closed it again. In truth John didn't know what to say, he knew Sherlock was correct in what he had said.

"I can't make it all go away."

Sherlock crossed his arms and stared at John.

"New shaving cream?" Sherlock asked. Sherlock had always been one to change conversations when he didn't know where they were going or he didn't like the direction in which it was going.

"New toothpaste?" John countered, though in truth John didn't want to tease, the Sherlock that had just admitted he had feelings for John had slipped away from John.

Sherlock smiled and pushed himself off the wall. "I heard we have a case to solve downtown." Sherlock made his way to the coat hanger.

"We?" John turned to follow Sherlock's movements.

"Yes, always we John." Sherlock turned from John's view and wrapped on his scarf. With a sigh of frustration and anger John pulled on a coat and followed after Sherlock.

"Do we really have a case downtown?" John turned to face Sherlock, the cab they had haled was slimmer and narrower than the usual ones, John sat nearly on Sherlock, though Sherlock didn't seem to mind.

"No, but we have something to do downtown."

John had never been one to connect, in fact recalling things from past conversations to connect to current conversations was something John could never do.

"What is it?" John pushed himself against the door, to be a little farther away from Sherlock. This Sherlock seemed to notice.

"The address on the paper."

"But we weren't supposed to go without Mycroft approving or knowing."

"Yes, but then you said let us go on our own without his knowledge, and now I suppose the idea seems somewhat less exciting than before but _at least_ it is your idea not mine." The cab halted in front of the large brightly flashing lights of the "CINEMA PLUS" building. John climbed out and greeted London's harsh air of pollution and rain.

"A cinema?" John looked around the road, looking for but not expecting something suspicious, perhaps men in suits or women with large shiny briefcases. The stereotypes one would expect in an action spy movie.

"2 tickets to Skyfall please." Sherlock pulled out his wallet and shoved a bill in the hole, his large hands getting slightly scraped by the harsh plastic.

"Skyfall?" John put his hands in his coat pocket and refused to allow himself to subject to the cold weather.

"It was on the list except it was fall sky, a famous painting by Sinna." Sherlock turned and faced John who was closer than Sherlock had thought.

_So short. _Sherlock thought as he looked down at John, then again, he had always liked John's height, it made it easier for Sherlock to see him, to feel less intimidated by him. Still, John held eyes of the army doctor with unhealed scars that shone with anger. Sherlock feared the anger as well as was completely intrigued by it.

"Alright, a dark cinema with _you, _just what I need." John took the ticket out of Sherlock's hand, their thumbs touching in a warm buzz of electricity. Sherlock had no idea how to interpret what John had just said, it could have been humor, mockery, honesty, or sarcasm. Sherlock watched John walk, his wrinkled face frowning naturally.

"Whom _exactly _are we waiting for?" John leaned in and whispered with a slight velocity to Sherlock. The theater was cold and the air was vivid with the adrenaline of the Bond fans. Personally John had never liked Bond, it had always been a mockery of his real agent life. Alcohol addiction, sex, women. None of the real tragedies, the death, the violence, the loss portrayed as it really happened.

"I don't entirely know." Sherlock whispered back. John relaxed into his chair and watched his surroundings carefully. Three women on his row, each bubbling with excitement, clearly not a potential threat lest they have AK 47's hidden with their protruding breasts. One man sat beside Sherlock, whose placement John did not particularly like, however the man was with a woman and each wore rings on their fourth finger of their left hand.

"Clear in front and beside." John leaned in closer to Sherlock. "You check behind." Sherlock obliged and turned around.

"No one looks dangerous," Sherlock attempted to be looking for someone but he was giving away their cover all to easily. John pulled him back down. "What's our cover?" Sherlock's thick hair brushed the side of John's forehead. John turned towards Sherlock and thought for a moment. Then he reached out and took Sherlock's limp cold hand in his.

"A couple." John turned to face the screen, unable to look Sherlock in the eyes. Sherlock turned to face the screen as well though both their attentions were on the contact of each others skin. Then all of a sudden the screen went blank. There was a moment of silence before outrageous fans began bursting their anger. John clutched Sherlock's hand tighter, this was it, he supposed. When no one could see anything. Then a bag was pulled over John's head and Sherlock was pulled away from him. When the lights came back on again Sherlock was gone and a woman sat beside John. John turned to the woman and pushed down his frantic fear and adrenaline.

"Hello." She said without so much as glancing at John. "How are you liking the movie?" She turned to John. John instantly knew her thick red lips and her long dark eyelashes, now that the screen had returned to it's previous state John could see her every feature perfectly, he didn't need to see them, he had them memorized.

"Irene?" John had momentarily forgotten anything else. Then he leaned in with urgency. "Irene, where's Sherlock?"

"Oh John, I should have known. The minute I left you I should have known you would jump on to the next living thing you could find," Irene laughed silently. "Poor broken John, no one to love him."

"Where. Is. Sherlock." John fought to maintain his cool but it slipped away from him. Irene, still smiling broadly, turned and pointed with her eyes to the edge of the cinema, where Sherlock sat between two large men who each held something to Sherlock's side. John swallowed a thick mass of saliva. Sherlock looked down at them but John could not see clearly enough to know if Sherlock was looking back at him.

"See how it feels, John? To have one you love right in front you, so close to death? You can almost taste it, can't you? The pain. The horror," Irene turned to him, her eye icy and her mouth a rigid line. "It's difficult to live with."

"What do you mean?" John's eyes flickered from Sherlock to Irene. "Why would you hurt him Irene, he's your colleague, your friend."

"He is not my friend," Irene's voice rose and she closed her eyes to regain her calm. "Now, if you would kind enough to tell me where Mycroft is based I will let Sherlock go and you two can run home and make all the gay sex you want." From afar, Sherlock wondered what was happening. He could see John's panic and it radiated through Sherlock.

"In case anyone out there cares, Sherlock and I aren't actually together you know. I'm not gay."

"No need to lie to me, John." Irene winked. "Now hurry, I don't have much time left. You have all of seven minutes before I order them to inject Sherlock with enough poison to kill an army."

"I don't know where his base is! I don't, you know that, you've been working with me." John's voice edged panic and it was all too clear.

"I was gone for 2 months, John. In those months Mycroft had your help to find relocation. 6 minutes," Irene looked down at her watch. "In fact, I think I'm even shorter on time than what I thought, 3 minutes."

John swallowed. He contemplated both options. Spilling to Irene the completely top secret CIA information that could possibly get him killed along with every agent. Letting Sherlock die…

"I…." John stumbled.

"1 minute, tick tock." Irene tapped her miniscule clear watch.

"The plumbing system. They're below the ground. The entire facility is below our feets, below the grounds of London, below the subway system as well."

Silence, dreadful, painful silence filled the air around John. What had he just done?

Irene smiled. "I knew you'd come around. Now, I'm going to have some boys check up on that. Till then, I'll keep Sherlock to see if you're telling the truth." John panicked, he silently panicked and desperately wanted to reach out to Irene and shake her. He held back his anger.

"What? Our deal was I tell you where the base is you let Sherlock go." John's voice wavered.

"And you should know by now I'm not really one to keep my word. Don't follow me or you'll find Sherlock delivered to you piece by piece." Irene stood and walked down the row of people watching with intent expressions. John looked up and watched Sherlock stand, the men pulling him up.

Sherlock looked down towards John and held his eyes while he was practically dragged down the steps till John could not see him anymore. John's breathing quickened and his heart picked up.

He had just betrayed his company and lost everything that meant anything to him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: God I am tired and I truly hate school.**

**Author's Note:** Sorry I've taken so long to upload another chapter :/ Real life is pretty tough, anyways thanks for any reviews you have sent me and I would love some more so don't hesitate. If you have any ideas or anything you want to say just message me :) Enjoy the chapter and I'll try to upload sooner.

"Very nicely done, Watson." Mycroft leaned onto his cane and looked out thoughtfully.

"You know how many people you could have killed?" Lestrade pulled John by the collar and held him furiously in front of Lestrade's face.

"Gre- Agent Lestrade, stop manhandling Agent Watson immediately. Remember that this entire meeting is being recorded," Mycroft sighed as though he was dealing with toddlers. "You have put not only Agent Holmes at risk but you have put the entire CIA at risk as well. We will have to take immediate action to relocate our entire facility and do you know how expensive that is?" John, now released from Lestrade's clutches, smoothed down his shirt and forced himself to meet Mycroft's eyes.

"I can apologize profusely and it will not do to show how guilty I am. I have been racking my brain for the last hour in fear." John watched Mycroft lift his walking stick and examine it.

"You have done more harm than you can repair. I will have to go and immediately begin the relocation process." Mycroft turned and gestured for Lestrade to follow. Lestrade shoved John aside as he passed.

"What is to be done about Agent Holmes?" John stood straighter and displayed no emotion on his face.

"That is your new mission. You can find the file in Hideout, where your partner for this mission will be waiting," Mycroft turned to leave and Lestrade followed, before he exited the door Mycroft turned his head and said briefly, "And John, we will be discussing your current place as a Special Service Agent when this is over." Then Mycroft was gone and John stumped over, unable to hold himself up with confidence.

"Hello Molly." John greeted the bright red haired girl who was viewing something in a microscope.

"John," Molly returned the greeting. Mycroft had decided against informing the CIA agents and desk workers that John had revealed the information. John welcomed Molly's warmth after Mycroft's bitter harshness and Lestrade's red fury. "It's over there." Molly pointed to the table that sat in front of the huge TV screen.

"Well, seems we have a lot of work to do." Molly glanced up at John. She nodded her head in agreement to him.

"I've read the protocol for our mission today. We don't have much to go off, since Mycroft's busy with this relocation. He's handed me three satellites to look from." Molly came around from the other side of the table and stood beside John. John lifted the sheet and read silently the words it had to offer. The faint taste of nausea lingered in his mouth and he looked up at Molly.

"Alright, we'd better get started."

"What first?" Molly inquired, they were running out of time and John wondered silently what was happening to Sherlock.

The room was a small depiction of a master bedroom. On one end lay the only thing Sherlock could recognize, beneath the blood and what appeared to be vomit, lay a bed. Sherlock eyed it cautiously. Along one wall stood an antique desk lined with burnt candles. Dried wax spilt over the edges of the candle. A small window had been barred and a mess of what must have previously been curtains hung from the slender bar above the window. Sherlock was seated in a black wooden chair on top of a blood stained carpet. Sherlock watched, calm and collected as they cuffed his hands behind him with the sharp plastic. Sherlock looked up at his captor. The man sported a balding head and a thick leather jacket, his jaw hung open slightly, revealing black soot covered teeth. The man had worked as a coal miner and had stained parts of his skin as well as his mouth. Sherlock watched him leave the room and cringed slightly at the sound of the loud thud of the boulder on the other side falling into place. Sherlock listened to the man's retreading footsteps. Sherlock waited patiently for movement of some sort. Eventually the light outside dimmed by the hour and Sherlock predicted it was around 6:00 when the door opened.

"Sherlock," Moriarity stepped into the room. Sherlock watched Moriarity, who stood now with his hands inside his pockets, survey the room. "I was hoping it would be harder, Sherlock," Moriarity walked towards the window. "I hoped you would put up a bit more of a fight but little Sherlock, how could you?" Moriarity laughed. "You made a big mistake, playing this game. The game of the adults,"

The door opened and 2 men entered, the coal miner was one of them, the other was thin and tall. Together they stood behind both ends of Sherlock's chair.

"You see when I heard what a huge _fuss _you all were making over this silly _paper,_ I decided I would make it worth your while," Moriarity turned towards Sherlock and held a cigarette between two fingers. "Now I know your CIA base and I have your little John in my hands like a puppet. 2 days, Sherlock. That's all it took," Moriarty gestured to Sherlock. "Strip him." Moriarty ordered the men.

Sherlock felt the blade of a knife cut the flex cuff open to release his hands. Sherlock immediately brought them into his view, the tips of his fingers had gone slightly blue and his wrists lined with a not-really-but-very-nearly scarlet red cut. The men behind him hoisted Sherlock up and then Sherlock was barely standing on his own limp legs. Sherlock gripped the chair to stay upright.

"Do not try and fight back, Sherlock. You know what will happen if you do, don't you?" Moriarty took a long slow drag from his cigarette. The thin tall man stood in front of Sherlock and took a knife out from his pocket; he tore a straight line through Sherlock's suit and ripped it off.

Sherlock pulled the shirt over his head, preferring to do it himself than have someone else do it for him.

"There is absolutely no trace of you, Sherlock. Nowhere. No one will find you here and by the time they get to the cinema to look for clues my crew will have swiped and swept the entire hall clean," Moriarty grinned at Sherlock. Sherlock stood, bare and naked in the cold air of the musty old room. He felt stripped of not only his clothes but also his power. Suddenly Sherlock felt defenseless.

"I spent a long time in Jamaica when I was about 23. Such a beautiful country, and the gambling, oh you should have seen me play," Moriarty gestured with his hands for Sherlock to be seated. The men shoved Sherlock into the chair, his buttocks and lower organs coming into contact with the damp cloth. "I played once against this man who went under the alias Quantim. The stakes that night were up to 20 million and right before the game was going to end, right before he knew and I knew I was going to win, you know what I saw on this murderous, cold, undefeated man's face? I saw the fear of all the men he had killed," Moriarty inhaled on his cigar and he exhaled swiftly. "That is what I am going to see in your eyes." Moriarty smiled and puffed again on his cigar.

The first satellite they looked into was known as _'Time Warner Cable.'_ It was darkening outside though John and Molly paid no attention. They watched the satellite through the first few hours of the day and the cinema was packed with hundreds of people John could not make out who was who. They watched through 6 different satellites before John collapsed.

"We'll never find him." John said, mostly into his hands.

Molly smiled, not at his exasperation but at his melodramatic-ness. "It's been only 2 hours. We've searched every angle and every corner and we haven't found him yet…"

"Well I bloody hell know that already," John's hands fell to the lab table and he glared up at Molly. "Sorry, that was uncalled for. It's been a long day." He sighed but Molly took no interest in what John had been saying. Molly closed her eyes in deep thought and her face completely tranquil. Then she opened her eyes and John immediately recognized the tint and sparkle of hope. He sat up and Molly lightly pushed him aside. She began typing into the computer.

"John you said they had weapons on them." Molly grinned into the computer screen and beside her John fumbled with what he was receiving.

"Yes, so?"

"So luckily for us there is a thermal camera setting on this satellite and we can view every element in different colors." Molly turned to John and he grinned at her.

"You're brilliant Molly! Now we've just got to get the setting on, do you know where to do that from?" In answer to John's question, Molly switched the camera to its thermal setting. The screen burst into a million pixels of different colors. John's eyes fought the blue and he searched for the dark blue, or almost black color indicating a hard metal. There was a silence of hope and anxiety as they searched the crowd of hundreds. John could see himself, could see Sherlock beside him, so close. John's eyes flickered away from the two of them. "Keep going to the next image, they must have arrived later than us."

Molly pressed forward and John watched Sherlock turn and face John with a serious face. Then John grabbed the tickets from Sherlock and turned. John watched Sherlock hesitate for a moment before following John.

"There!" Molly's finger lunged forward and paused the playing pictures. She pointed towards the picture. "You see?" John blinked and looked at the two large men. Yes, they were most defiantly the men who had held Sherlock. Where was Irene? "They're going through the back entrance." Molly's finger followed them as they walked towards the turn of the huge theater. On the other side John knew were the employers' quarters. Then John' spotted Irene. Irene entered separately through the regular entrance and walked forward with purpose. John's stomach turned as he remembered her bitter betrayal he yet had to wrap his head around.

"Skip forward," John instructed and Molly obliged. People hurried back and forth until John saw Sherlock exit coolly with the 2 men beside him. To an outsider it might look like Sherlock was in no problem but John could see the way Sherlock glanced around frantically and nervously. They entered a black Suede car. John paused the picture it was on. He zoomed into the car and noted it's number. Then he entered the search engine and typed the number in. Several results showed up, including a tracker that had at some point been installed in it. John opened the map and viewed it's location. It had been parked in an alleyway a short walk from John's apartment, 221B. John grabbed his coat. "Let's go." Molly did not disagree in the slightest with the idea.

"I really don't know what you want from me, as well as why I am naked." Sherlock glanced down at his bare body. The skin was smooth and clear, his chest dotted with a few hairs, but all in all he was not much to look at. He wondered silently what John would think of him, then dismissed the thought immediately, John would never _have_ to think anything of his naked body because he would never see Sherlock's naked body.

"So average!" Moriarty bit into the apple he was eating. "You are acting so average, Sherlock," He chewed for a minute then he swallowed. "I want to know where you kept the codes. I have men in your apartment right now. And they are waiting for your precious John Watson to come home," Moriarty added a bitter touch the name. "And in the meantime they have been shredding apart every item of clothing you have ever owned and tearing apart your apartment. Now it is all very simple, Sherlock. You tell me or I use the classic Bond torture method on you." Sherlock lifted a long chain with a leather pouch attached to the bottom, the leather pouch was filled entirely with sand that made the pouch as hard as rock. Sherlock swallowed. He had read the Bond books and knew exactly what was to come.

The deadly silence danced around Moriarty and Sherlock sharply, like a paper cut. "No?" Moriarty pointed to Sherlock but looked towards his men. They hurried forward and strapped Sherlock's chest with a leather belt to the chair. Sherlock breathed in and struggled, the strap's edges cut deeply into his skin. Then one of them took the knife and slit the bottom of the chair open, Sherlock's bottom half fell downwards but he was held up by the straps on his body. The men stepped back and waited patiently. Sherlock tensed as Moriarty lifted the chain. There was a deadlyness to Moriarty's moves. Sherlock closed his eyes and the delicious snip of the chain being thrust into the air accelerated Sherlock's heart rate. Then Sherlock felt nothing, for a short tense moment, Sherlock felt absolutely nothing. But the moment lasted for barely a fraction of a second because suddenly, Sherlock's entire body thrust itself forward. Sherlock hunched forward and his mouth gaped open. Every muscle in Sherlock's body twisted, cramped and his skin bulged with the cramped muscles. Sherlock's toes and fingers clutched together and then bent in odd positions and he screamed silently. His knuckles turned a sharp shade of white and he panted, sweat dripped off his chin and onto his bare leg. Blood dripped down Sherlock's chest from where the leather bit his skin. Sherlock found no ability to sit up, his every muscle and every nerve had died.

"What a piece of art!" Moriarty mused. "Look at you, you pathetic excuse of an agent," Moriarty shook his head. "I am wasting time on you, Sherlock. This game has been played to no avail for too long. Tell me now, Sherlock, or we can continue on. I do reckon you won't be able to live much longer through this…_method_. Though I would enjoy seeing how long it would take to crack you,"

Sherlock's eyes dripped small drops of tears and he breathed shallow breaths. Then, in a small lucky miracle, he fainted. Moriarty groaned. "I was _hoping _you weren't one of _those_," Moriarty paced the room and after 5 minutes of silence Moriarty gave permission to the men. They stalked forward and with a stick began to beat Sherlock. One slapped Sherlock's limp face and another gave blows to Sherlock's chest, careful not to break any ribs or cause permanent damage. They stepped back when Sherlock groaned. "Welcome back sweetheart." Moriarty pulled back his arm and lunged the whip at Sherlock from under the chair.

Sherlock screamed in an agonizing pain. This time, he did not faint; he threw his head back and struggled against the impossible pain. Moriarty leaned forward and whispered into Sherlock's ear.

"No one's here to save you, Sherlock, now talk to me." Moriarty waited for a moment then with a clenched fist, delivered a blow to Sherlock's face. "TELL ME!" There was impatience in Moriarty's voice and Sherlock swallowed back a pathetically desperate sob. Moriarty waited again and Sherlock remained silentl in some miraculous way.

"W-water." Sherlock croaked and Moriarty stood up straight.

"Oh Sherlock, you have failed me again." Moriarty turned away from Sherlock. "Have your way with him." Moriarty didn't even bother to turn as he delivered his instructions to the now smiling men. Moriarty left the room and distantly Sherlock heard classical music playing loudly. Sherlock groaned as a painfully dry finger stroked his open chest wound. Sherlock's eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted for the second time in 20 minutes.

"No, Gregory darling. We cannot simply announce that one of our own has betrayed us so shamelessly." Mycroft poured himself a glass of scotch.

Gregory stalked forward and stood right before Mycroft, their noses nearly touching. "Don't, call me darling." Gregory breathed heavily on Mycroft and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Must you always be so melodramatic?" Mycroft turned and walked to his large leather seat.

"John Watson, a trusted agent and friend gets off clean? After what he's done to the entire CIA facility? After nearly getting us all_ killed_?" Greg threw his hands up and stared directly at Mycroft. Mycroft smiled halfheartedly.

"Don't worry so much. I have plans for John, and he will come to regret his mistake. Patience, Gregory."

John pulled Molly back from the door and examined it carefully.

"No, they're inside." John whispered softly, he pulled Molly back into the small gap between the apartment building and one neighboring it. They stood quietly.

"What do we do?" Molly asked nervously, she was not used to fieldwork and John understood that. Most women worked in desk jobs

"We break in," John carefully looked out and up at the windows. "2 rifles stationed at the windows, 2 body guards." John deduced.

"So we jump in, fight off the guards and then we get Sherlock and run?"

John shook his head towards Molly and she hesitated.

"Then what are we going to do?" She asked pointedly.

John stopped himself from rolling his eyes at Molly, instead he explained.

"We attempt to only knock out the guards and then collect blood samples from the men and tape up the scene. All in all, if this goes well, we have a lot more information about our enemies." John looked up at the pipes climbing the building, and then he looked around the empty street. "Ready?" He asked Molly. She gulped and before she could reply John pulled out his gun and fired into the air. There was striking silence, and then a door closed. John tensed and then lunged himself forward. In precise timing he caught one of the bodyguards. He knocked the man out with the butt of his gun then dragged his body in. By now the men with the rifle must have seen him.

"I can't fight." Molly's voice shook as she looked down at the bleeding man. John looked her over, she had a slender figure, one that could bend and flex well but Molly was not well built nor was she trained in the art of fighting, not in the slightest, that was clear in her uncomfort with simply the sight of blood. John found it ironic that seeing the blood pumping out of the man's nerves got Molly nervous but seeing the same blood under a microscope didn't affect her much.

"Just stay by me," John wished he had another gun to give to her, he needed someone to have his back, 3 snipers was literally impossible to take out, let alone taking them out alone. John stepped out into the open air and didn't hesitate before pressing himself tightly against the wall and slinking forward towards the door. He prayed silently that Sherlock was in there and they would be able to get him out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: My brother is really stupid.**

The scene rapidly changed from what John hoped would be an easy feat into that of a hopeless battle, in which John was bound to be defeated. John swung the butt of his gun upwards and aimed the swing towards the first guard, the butt met with a sickening crunch and a soft thump as the unconscious body met the carpet. He bled on John's floor but John did not have time to congratulate himself or worry over the bloodstain. John turned to face the other guard and stopped. Molly breathed heavily and it was the only sound in the room. John hoped she would run, now that they both knew who would be the victor. John lunged and kicked forward, hoping to catch the large man in his shins. Molly gasped when John's foot missed and crashed downward. John had the breath taken out of him and he huffed. Suddenly a large foot crashed down on his chest, again knocking the air out of his lungs forcefully. John groaned and tried moving his legs but his back sent stinging waves of pain down his body.

"You will not move." The man above spat at John, a bitter accent licking his words. John attempted once more moving his legs to help himself up but he gave up. John turned his head and met Molly's eyes. They held for a moment and she seemed to understand, she turned to run but instantly slammed into the man whom had been bleeding from his head moments ago. John stared up at his bald red stained head and wondered how he could stand, it was only then that John realized how terrible he had underestimated these men.

"Bring her over here," One of the snipers stood and pulled out the chair at the desk. John watched the bleeding man stumble forward, holding Molly by her hair, and shove Molly into the wooden chair. "You are very pretty."

The sniper stroked Molly's cheek with his dirty fingers. Molly shook with fear and sobs she could not release.

"What do you want?" John croaked, his voice soft due to the pressure of the foot on his lungs.

"We are going to wait." The sniper sat back down and resumed watching the window, gun in his steady stiff hand. John knew not to ask any other questions, the time for talking had passed and he rested his head on the floor. Molly's eyes were violently closed, her breathing short and panicky. John wished she had run when he had wanted her to.

"In the apartment?" Mycroft asked again, he was indeed a genius but the irony of the situation caught him off guard. "Right where we can see them?" Mycroft smiled to himself.

"What are you smiling about? They've got Molly and _John." _Lestrade added bitterly. Mycroft looked up and shook his head.

"This will be easier than I had thought, Lestrade, you and your team will launch a rescue mission. I want _at least _3 of them alive. Be careful," Mycroft folded his hands in his lap and looked towards the door, clearly signaling Lestrade's leave.

Lestrade turned to leave, but Mycroft interrupted. "And Gregory," Lestrade stiffened at the use of his real name. "Try not to let your emotions get in the way of your work, _again._" Mycroft watched Lestrade leave quickly, knowing that Mycroft had poked Lestrade in a sensitive spot. Mycroft did not apologize, he never apologized, for he was the head of the largest spy company in the world, he never had to apologize for anything to anyone.

**3 DAYS LATER**

"Agent Holmes is officially proclaimed dead. We have no evidence of his death, no corpse or trail, however, it has been over 48 hours of his missing Agent report, and I must follow the rules I have made myself. We will hold no ceremony for him, should he still be alive, but I have terminated his access to the CIA facility and the CIA computer base." There was a saddening loud silence in which Mycroft pursed his lips. No one had been quite that fond of Sherlock but now that he was gone there was guiltiness in the field of Agents before him for each and every one of them had given him an insult of some sort. Then, of course there was John. Mycroft had plans for John but even Mycroft took pity on John's terrible current state. Though Mycroft knew what he knew, he could not help but feel as though Sherlock was truly dead, in these times, when one was around John they could not focus mentally on anything but the terrible melancholy radiating off him.

**2 DAYS EARLIER**

The silence of the church made John all the more uneasy. He shifted his thoughts delicately from his despair at not finding Sherlock to his surroundings, John guessed there were about 2 entrances and exists. The main and, as most churches have, the back. There was most likely a basement as well as an attic, though neither would do any good. Getting trapped above or below ground was a surefire way of never make it out again. John listened to his captures carefully but they spoke deliberately soft, ensuring privacy. John looked towards Molly, whom shuffled forward, head down and all hope lost. John cursed himself again for letting her come with him, and then cursed her for agreeing. They were both at fault, but John should have been wiser. Molly was separated from John and taken into a separate room.

"They will not touch her, but if you prove to be a problem, we will see how fast that can change." The bald man sat across from John in a relaxed manner. Surely the 2 snipers would not simply leave Molly alone. She was an unprotected woman for gods sake and John had been captured enough to not believe the words of his captures.

"Why is she in another room, then?" John's back pressed against his hands and they slowly began to lose feeling, over the next 20 minutes they would become blue and John would loose the ability to strike with precision. He needed to find his way out before that. He heard sounds from where Molly was being held and straightened up. "What are we waiting for?" John attempted to hide the desperation in his voice but he could barely stomach the idea of Molly alone in there.

About 10 minutes passed and John could hear sudden loud sounds from where Molly was being held, John was certain they were doing their way with her. In an unpredicted, un-thought movement John lashed out with a sudden urgency, his legs flailing through the air. With ease the man sitting across from John lifted his hand and caught John's foot mid air, he twisted and shoved John back, with a startling speed and power John fell to the floor, his back hitting it harshly and he immediately regretted not thinking before striking. John landed on his hands and though they held no feeling, he arched his back upwards and groaned. A blow landed on his chest and he lay on the ground, struggling to regain his thinking process.

"One more time, and I'll give my command." The man growled, he had long run out of impatience. About 30 minutes later a loud crash sounded from the front of the church. There was a crippling moment of tension, in which John reasoned that there were 2 situations that could unfold, 1. John was going to be rescued or 2. John was being taken elsewhere, perhaps farther away from where he currently was. John looked up towards his captor and his heart dropped, he was not being rescued. His captor stood grinning towards the main doors of the church, which John could not see.

"Tooth, you're not supposed to hurt him," A seductive smooth voice swum through the air and licked John's ears tenderly. John held his breath. "John, wonderful to see you again," Irene's high heels clicked on the floor with loud _chunks _and John held his tongue, refusing to give into his urge of spitting profanities at Irene. "Where is the girl?" Irene's silky voice was laced delicately with the most subtle hints of impatience, but still she smiled beautifully at the guard and lazily winked. The guard stood straighter, which was seemingly impossible, and turned his head towards the set of doors leading to Molly.

Irene smiled mischievously and sauntered over, her hair up in an impossibly still bun. John lifted his head with the only strength he could muster and watched Irene push lightly on the doors, they creaked open slightly and Irene slipped inside, giving John no view of what the inside held. John rested his head on the floor again when the guard gave him a menacing look, almost _daring _John would say.

Sherlock groaned as he came back to his harsh reality and his head spun. His body ached so sorely Sherlock could not focus on a certain part of himself to soothe. Sherlock listened to the sounds, attempting to identify something. The pain of the torture, the deliberate physical pain, was a black thick cloud floating gingerly in Sherlock's head, and in a sudden wave of nausea and fear Sherlock realized he could not think properly, Sherlock began panting, his heart racing. It was simply the thought of losing himself mentally that terrified Sherlock's every ounce of being, it was the fear of never being able to separate reality with fantasy that struck Sherlock so painfully he could not breathe. Sherlock gasped and threw his head back. There were millions of noises in his mind now, so many Sherlock could not perceive which he must listen to, which he must leave be, for the first time Sherlock did not know what to make of himself, his situation, his state of mind. In thick drops Sherlock's eyes leaked tears as he concentrated. Then suddenly there was John's voice.

_"Mind palace, he calls it, where he sorts out all his thoughts, organizes his brain." _

Sherlock released a thick breath, for suddenly, Sherlock's mental pain eased, in the slightest, it released its terrible hold on him. Sherlock began breathing in a regular pattern. There were birds outside, the sun was in the angle of early morning, and there were no sounds from within the compound he was being held in.

_Birds?_

Sherlock thought back quickly. Yes, birds indeed. Sherlock listened closely. Woodchuckers to be precise, the brown kind, the one that feasted on only Oak. In a sudden wave of mental electriccity Sherlock knew where he was. South of Callbrigde park, across Westington museum. Sherlock swallowed thick saliva laced still with his previous panic. It was only the matter of either escaping or somehow contacting Mycroft or perhaps John, or anyone in the C.I.A. whom would help him. Sherlock's chest ached with an inner pain as well as outer pain and together both were equivalent to the pain radiating off his lower organs. Sherlock wondered what damage had been done to him.

It was a silent car ride, in which John was blindfolded and Molly whimpered silently. John had gotten to look at Molly before being blinded and John could tell she had not been molested sexually, though her cheeks were bruised slightly and her lips swollen red. John dreaded where they were being taken. Molly had never been captured, had never tried fieldwork, and John knew that she never would, not after this terrible incident. John counted the turns as the car drove through the pain plagued city of London but after 3 turns John could not make out where he was. He figured there was no point in attempting to keep track, what use would it be if he could not tell anyone? John's hand adjusted to the slightly looser plastic cuffs wrapped around his wrists, but his hands still ached dully, nothing of which compared to the pain in his still swelling back. He wondered what Molly was thinking, what she was feeling. John could feel her fear radiating in a gravity he did not want to think much about. Irene's foot rested with a slight pressure on John's, reminding him of where he was and who was in charge.

Eventually, they reached their destination, and after being unloaded from the large car, which John assumed was a van of some sort, they were shuffled in, still blinded, through a set of double doors. There was a certain scent in the air John found familiar, and the sounds that soothed him instantly were familiar as well. It seemed John did not need to follow the turns to know where he was, he knew already.

"Welcome, John, to my humble abode." Sherlock's deep voice croaked at John. When John was un-blindfolded, he struggled to hold back a cringe at Sherlock's current state. Dried blood stained in drops down Sherlock's chest, where an open wound lay unattended. Sherlock sat naked with only a small towel to cover his waist to his knees. John's eyes grew heavy at the sight of Sherlock so weak, but Sherlock's eyes glistened. Suddenly there was a hope for survival, there was an appreciative happiness at the companionship in the otherwise empty room. John coughed.

"Sherlock," John leaned forward. "Are you wearing any pants?"

There was a silence before Sherlock's face slipped into a smile, then Sherlock began to laugh, a sound that did not suit his physical state. John began laughing as well. Together they grinned foolishly, in spite of their terrible situation, at the sheer luck of ending up together.


End file.
